I stand up and hold my hand out again, and this time he lets me haul him to his feet. The bench happens to be situated under a lamppost with a sprig of mistletoe hanging from it, and he leans forward and presses his lips to my cheek again. Another peck that isn’t nearly long enough.
‘Really, Miss Maddison, we’re going to have to stop meeting like this.’ He mouths the words against my skin before kissing my cheek again and pulling away.
‘Decorating these lampposts was your idea. You should’ve known there’d be mistletoe involved.’
‘Oh, I was counting on it.’ He gives me such a cheeky wink that it makes my knees feel so weak that I’m glad we’re standing in front of a bench in case they give out. I’ve never noticed any problems with my knees before but James is having a shockingly negative impact on them.
‘In fact, I think we should put some mo … That’s a weird camera.’
I follow his gaze when his sentence trails off and I see a man photographing the line of nutcrackers with what can only be described as a professional camera.
‘What are you up to?’ James asks nonchalantly as we approach him.
‘The Wiltshire Walkabout. Following up some comments we’ve been receiving online. Quite a few people talking about these little chaps on our social media accounts. Something to do with this old place closing down?’
Even the words make a cold shiver run down my spine, but it’s instantly replaced by James’s hand as he gently but determinedly encourages me forward. ‘This is Nia Maddison, the organiser.’
‘We’re co-organisers,’ I say quickly.
‘Oh, excellent.’ The man pulls his phone out, presses a couple of buttons, and holds it up to show me the microphone symbol to indicate it’s recording audio. ‘Can you say a few lines about what’s going on here? I’m going to run this on the website because people are curious, but if it gets a good response, it’ll get a spot in the local newspaper on Monday too.’
At first I think I’ll be nervous, but it’s so quick and informal, and James’s hand doesn’t move from the centre of my spine between my shoulder blades, his fingertips rubbing minutely against my jumper, and by the time I’ve finished talking about how wonderful Nutcracker Lane used to be and how much things have changed, the man looks like he regrets asking.
He thanks me and hurries away, but we watch him dart into a few shops with his phone still in hand, surely to get comments from some of the other shopkeepers too.
‘You said you wanted someone to listen,’ James says as we head back to Starlight Rainbows. ‘Maybe wishes do come true.’
I look up at him and he grins back at me, his brown eyes dancing with all the shades of wood.
It’s definitely not beyond the realm of possibility.
Chapter 13
‘Don’t eat that, that’s the door!’
‘Sorry,’ James says with his mouth full. ‘Can’t it be an open house this year? Y’know, warm and welcoming? Inviting people in via the open door?’
‘It’s a good job there’s still plenty of dough left.’
‘I’m sorry, but you put fresh-baked warm gingerbread in front of me and I can’t control myself. I’m just testing it to make sure it’s up to standard. Call me Quality Control.’
By December 15th, to say I’m having a slight panic about all the baking I haven’t done yet would be an understatement. James has come over after work to help, officially part of his un-Grinching, although judging by the number of wishes he’s been granting lately, I’m not sure how much help he needs on that front.
I should be telling him off for eating everything I can make as soon as it comes out of the oven, but the truth is that I love seeing him enjoy it, even if it was a vital part in the construction of the gingerbread house that was supposed to be made weeks ago.
He eats the cut-out bit of the window. ‘This is just going to stand there for decoration. Don’t we deserve to enjoy it too? What’s the point of making something edible look so nice when you can’t actually consume it until it needs hoovering and dusting first?’
‘They’re made for visual enjoyment.’ I try not to laugh even though he has a point. ‘I’ll make a batch of gingerbread men for edible enjoyment before Christmas.’
‘Can I come and help?’
‘Like you’re helping with that?’ I raise an eyebrow as I carry on spooning the royal icing into a piping bag, ready to stick the pieces together.
‘I’m supervising!’ He nods towards the sides and roof of the gingerbread house laid out on oven trays covering the kitchen unit. ‘I’m supervising these getting cold enough to construct.’
‘A vital job. The whole process would fall apart without you.’
He pops another window into his mouth and grins at me, and even though I’m trying to be annoyed, I cannot stop myself grinning back at him. He knows I’m teasing, and I’d be so embarrassed if he had even half a clue about how happy I was when he still wanted to follow through on his promise to help with the gingerbread house.
I’ve used my grandma’s recipe for the walls and roof parts – one with less baking soda to stop it rising and less butter for a stronger, firmer gingerbread – and between us we’ve got the dough made, eaten dinner while it was chilling, and James has stood back while I’ve rolled and cut each panel to within a millimetre of its life and used every oven tray I own to get them baked. It’s the first time since we lost my grandma that I’ve used this recipe, and the first time I’ve ever attempted a gingerbread house on my own. Well, not on my own – with James. I glance over at him. He’s now eating the garden path.
‘You know you’re going to have to come over again sometime and help me replace
